


Love Me So (let it snow)

by zanni_1 (zanni_scaramouche)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, CEO Derek Hale, Christmas, Come Swallowing, Comeplay, Felching, Fluff and Smut, Intern Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Marking, Power Dynamics, Sharing Clothes, Snowballing, Snowed In, Softer than it sounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:42:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28024152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanni_scaramouche/pseuds/zanni_1
Summary: As CEO, Mr. Hale is used to spending more nights curled on his office coach than his bed, but this time it isn't an impending merger or new client deal keeping him hibernated on the fortieth floor this Christmas Eve. A city wide blizzard warning, a power outage, and a dismal lack of tea leaves him hours away from what he expects to be one of the more pathetic Christmas mornings of his life.That is, until the new bright eyed intern scares the living crap out of him.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 17
Kudos: 344





	Love Me So (let it snow)

**Author's Note:**

> A spot of fun for the holidays! No beta, no rules, no cares! A surprising amount of plot for a kink fic tho, I will say that.

New York is a mess in the snow. Whatever romanticized image they sell you of fluffy white flakes gracefully twirling on a twinkle lit street filled with cheerful people, it’s absolute shit. Slushy snow too heavy to float drips down like a runny nose on the city and collects in a wet sock mine-field of ash grey clumps for the dour faced citizens to slog through. Derek Hale and his thin socks are quite thankful to be burrowed in his forty story office as the pitch black sky swallows every colour and leaves the city below a hellscape of sleet slicked ice. 

This year there’s no reason for him to face the bleak drive west filled with monotonous hours of vacant fields that send him closer to sleep than the distant town he used to call home. If home is a place, he figures he lost it when the house he grew up in sold well under market value only to be torn down and developed into a condominium. If home is a person, well, he lost that too when his parents passed. It sure as shit isn’t the glass box apartment he has downtown, occupied more hours of the week by his cleaning lady than himself. 

This office, with its corner view of the skyline more often under cloud cover than not, is probably the closest thing he has to a home. The thought makes his reflection in the window frown back at him with the realisation he might be a bit pathetic. It’s hard to deny when his office contains a closet full of fresh suits and the bottom drawer of his desk is stocked with personal toiletries, not counting the couch that doubles as his bed most nights. He’s distracted from admitting his own loneliness when the night chill cuts sharply at the back of his neck and a shiver wracks through him. 

He blinks his dry eyes and sinks into his chair after hours of finalizing a new deal the company will implement in the New Year. Given the unfortunate time shown on the clock face, he doesn’t need to glance into the hallways to know they’re barren of even the squeaky-wheeled janitor carts. With a sigh, he stacks neatly printed copies to the side and eases into his jacket, opening the Maps app on his mobile to route him the fastest way home. 

Things have a nasty way of piling up in the horrible combination of poor weather and anxious drivers hurrying home for the big day, so he’s expecting a few unfavourable detours. What he’s not expecting is the solid grid of red lines and a pop up informing him the weather has gone from ‘fuck this is annoying’ to ‘blizzard warning in effect: travel not advised’ levels of horrible. 

Every major route has closures due to vehicle accidents, fallen trees and telephone poles, and snow piling up faster than the plows can manage. Derek huffs in small resignation. It’s the only moment he takes to be forlorn about the predicament before moving into action to settle in for the night, perhaps a little oddly pleased not to be leaving the only place he feels he belongs.

His broad shouldered coat resumes its station on a stiff hanger in exchange for one of the soft sweaters he keeps specifically for nights like this. He’d never wear something so shapeless during daylight hours, but in the dim sanctuary of his office he slips out of his Italian silk shirt and into the old comfort of cotton, wrapping handfuls of oversized sleeves around his balled up fingers. His pants hold their crisp lines even as he steps out of them and into worn heather grey sweatpants in a waft of fresh scented laundry detergent.

Glasses come out next as he rounds the desk, turtle shell things he’s fostered a love-hate relationship with. To finish his habitual hibernation, only one thing is missing. He grabs the inconspicuous mug from his desk. A hot drink. 

His plans are halted the moment he opens his sideboard cupboard to an empty tea tin. And the second one a shelf below it is abysmally vacant too. It’s not the biggest misery, all it takes is a run to the staff kitchen to pilfer a stack of tea sachets. Still, Derek savours the chance to act out in a way he never does in public and makes a childlike whine at the cruel delay of his blanket bundle time.

After his short strop, his fingers tap softly against the lid of the empty tin as he crosses through the dim room and pulls open the door to greet the world outside his bubble. Besides the financial shares he has invested in it, or even the title next to his name, there is an unmistakable feeling of ease in this building made of glass and steel Derek is hard pressed to find elsewhere. 

Little pools of light litter the otherwise dark bullpen of desks, lamps his colleagues forgot to switch off in their haste to begin their holidays. The thought of them home with their families makes Derek smile fondly. The women with shimmering hair and painted lips have become his friends, the men in crisp suits people he can hold steady conversation with over pints. His younger basketball-and-attitude-touting self would have spat in the face of these people, assuming the worst of them. Years here have shown him behind the gloss and glamour there are real people, some more vapid and vacant than others just as anywhere else, but also a few genuine gems kept in his close circle he’s happy to trade jokes and stories with every day of the week.

There’s not a sound as he slips through the corridor, the cozy socks he tugged on barely making a sound as he pads over the glistening floors towards the break room. Hopefully someone’s left the milk in the fridge. Last time someone tossed it assuming he’d be out of the office and he’d been forced to have a stern word with everyone about the significance of scrawled penmanship on waxed cartons and the meaning of ‘MINE - no touch’. Tea without milk may as well be dumped down the drain. Not that Derek would waste tea like that, he’d still drink it, but he wouldn’t enjoy it. 

He’s still pondering the chances of a milky Christmas miracle when he turns the corner at the end of the hall and collides with something warm and solid. The empty tea tin slips from his hands and clatters to the floor.

“Holy fuck!”

Derek defensively raises his arms at the quick flash of movement. Once the moment has settled he makes out the shadowy silhouette of wild hair and broad shoulders, the figure swearing richly in mirror surprise.

“Hello Stiles,” slips from Derek’s tongue once he’s recognized the man.

It’s the intern. Not some pimple faced kid earning credit, an actual paid graduate on track for full placement after the holiday break. Derek shook hands with him in some vague memory a few months back when they’d brought him on, and he doesn’t need the light to know the exact shade of pale the silky skin of his cheeks is and the light shine of honey in his irises. Both make an impression.

“Derek, sorry. Didn’t see ya,” Stiles says in a half anxious half jovial tone Derek’s heard on the other side of his office walls for weeks now. 

In the dark Derek can’t tell if there’s a flush to Stiles' cheeks, which is comforting because he can feel the heat of his own.

“What are you doing here so late?” 

A hand ruffles through the soft locks of hair come loose throughout the day and Derek’s tempted to reach out when a piece immediately falls back into his face. Derek crosses his arms instead, attempting to seem professional in socks and cotton. His toes wiggle in their knit homes.

“Got caught up in something,” Stiles shrugs without looking at him and Derek doesn’t know what the hell could have kept an intern in the office so late but he’s eager to cut this interaction short so they can pretend this mortifying moment never happened. “Weather shut down my ride home.” 

Stiles shrugs his shoulders under a deep maroon knit. Wool, if Derek felt right for the split second he’d been pressed against it. Not the scratchy type but something closer to cashmere, that soft stuff from the special mountain goats. Merino. It sits nicely on Stiles' broad chest and hugs the subtle curve of his trim physique. He belongs in a December catalogue for luxury furniture, whereas Derek closer resembled a college student fueled by ramen. 

“Try Boyd’s, tell him Derek’s asking. Could take a while tonight but he won’t leave you in the cold for long,” Derek says as he grabs the fallen tin and starts to step his way around the man. 

Boyd has been his driver since the beginning. Both of them have grown since meeting, Derek crawling his way to a corner office on the fortieth while Boyd established a fleet of luxury transportation. No doubt they’d be working just like Derek round the clock, even on this night. 

Derek slips past Stiles to relieve the other man of the eyesore of his wardrobe, making a mental note to drop by his driver and old friend’s soon to catch up and say ‘hi’ to the kids.

The encounter leaves Derek jittery. In the rosey glow of a single strand of multi-coloured lights above the break room sink, his fingers drum along the worktop and his leg jostles as he waits for the kettle to boil. It’s odd to know somewhere in the building there’s a Stiles. Derek touches the strands of his styled hair to ensure they’re neatly in place. Should he have said something more? Did it sound conceited to say his own name would handle Stiles' ride home if it was simply true? 

Derek scowls. Social proficiency is a skill he’s had to work hard to master and he usually succeeds, except, it seemed, when a certain intern was involved. In sharp movements he stuffs the tin with pilfered bags to keep him stocked through the night, tamping down one bag at a time until the kettle clicks over to boiling. 

He watches the instant inky swirl of fragrant black tea steeping in hopes it’ll keep his mind from Stiles. It doesn’t. All he can think about is wherever the boy is headed to spend Christmas morning since Derek hadn’t even had the decency to ask. Hopefully his family is close enough, or maybe his friends will gather. 

Someone as bright as Stiles deserves to be surrounded by loved ones on a day meant for cheer and celebration. The thought of him alone in a cold apartment grates against Derek’s consciousness to the point of distraction and he adds sugar to his tea without thinking. He never adds sugar. He takes a sip and finds the light sweetness on his tongue isn’t horrible.

Hot mug in hand, Derek starts his treck back to his office. Silver streaks glint on the ornaments tastefully positioned throughout the place. Their cheerful facades bring a bittersweet melancholy in the half lit night. Christmas’ past spent with his family flit through Derek’s head beside old dreams he used to have of little stomping feet in his own future home. Both are distant now, pushed to the side while he’s been focused on his career for over a decade. As he enters his plush office filled with comfortable leather furniture and windows for walls, he thinks maybe it’s finally time to shift focus. 

Derek takes a moment to settle into the divot on the couch he’s made over countless nights. The decorative throw pillows are softer than they look and he piles them around him, tugging a blanket from the closest over his legs so he’s bundled. From his pocket he rolls out two little earbuds and his phone, ready to settle in with an audiobook to take his mind away. 

Just as he pops the buds in he sees the red battery flash on his mobile screen. With a curse Derek debates simply rolling over and going to sleep, but he has two chapters left and is secretly looking forward to the happy ending barely ten minutes away, so he shoves the blankets down and shuffles across the floor on a mission to find the charger in his desk. 

He finds the chord and plugs his phone in, watching the battery flick to the green charging bolt with satisfaction. The moment he sets it down on the polished wood of his desktop the lamp goes off. 

Derek frowns and flicks the switch a few times, then sees his phone battery has gone back to red. Poking his head out of his office confirms it, the entire place has gone dark. Power outage. 

He slips back to his desk and checks his phone to find three percent battery left. There’s a good chance Stiles is already in a car on the way to his flat somewhere in the city. There’s a small chance he’s already home and slipping into bed. There’s an even smaller chance he’s still in the building without any light and soon to be zero heat if the furnace stays off for longer than an hour. 

Derek childishly twists his fingers behind his back in cruel hope and presses dial. 

“Just about to call you,” Stiles says upon answering with a smile in his voice. 

“You’re still in the building?” 

“Yeah, was shelving in archives.” 

Derek stares at his phone in disbelief. What the fuck was Stiles shelving archives for on Christmas Eve? Derek growls when he sees he doesn’t have enough battery to get into it, already dropped to one percent, but he plans on getting an answer at some point. 

“Meet in my office.” 

The line disconnects before either can say anything more. Derek drops the useless hunk of plastic and leans against his desk. His eyes catch on the blanket nest he’s made on the couch and it jumps him into action, scurrying over to sort it because he’s mortified himself enough for one night. With only the glow of the city to light the room he organizes the pillows back into their correct corners and folds the blanket in half. 

The ivory fleece falls elegantly over the back of the couch as a double knock rings on his door. Derek turns just in time to see Stiles peaking in.

“You shouldn’t wait in the dark by yourself,” Derek explains automatically, his voice soft considering the hesitancy in Stiles’ frame hovering in the doorway. 

Stiles' features are defined by the gentle moonlight, craters of shadows rounding him out. He fiddles with the bottom of his shirt. 

“Right, uh, but actually I didn’t get an answer when I called for the car, so…” He shrugs without meeting Derek’s inquisitive eyes.

“Really?” Derek frowns. Maybe Boyd’s drivers were stuck in the mess outside, maybe they were playing it safe and cancelling the night all together. 

Stiles simply nods, his eyes busy taking in the large space around them. Derek tries to imagine what he sees, if he can make out the family portraits on the bookshelf, and the plushness of the blanket, and the novels neatly stacked to the side of his chair. Or does Stiles only see the glossy lacquer, and supple leather, and gilded details? Can he tell Derek’s tried to bring warmth and sincerity into the professional landscape? Derek tugs at the sleeves of his sweater as he looks between the intern and his dark office.

“Best to stay here then, you’d be ice skating on the streets with those giraffe legs.” 

Stiles’ mouth quirks like he wants to fight the statement they both know is true. He doesn’t fight it though, simply closes his mouth as his eyes start another round of flitting over the shadowed objects in the room. 

Derek motions over Stiles' shoulder at the door. 

“There’s the chairs in the break room, but you should probably stay here.” With me, he means. “Place will start cooling quickly with the heater out. I got, uh…” Derek waves at the blanket neatly folded over the couch and turns to his closet, hoping Stiles can’t see inside it and realize how it’s practically a working wardrobe with a fair share of bedding. He pulls out another silky-smooth fluffy blanket, this one a dark shimmering red. 

He hands it to Stiles. “Take the couch.” 

“And you?”

“I’ll be fine in the chair,” Derek nods to his generously ergonomic chair behind his desk. Not the worst thing he’s ever fallen asleep on.

“No,” Stiles says so sternly it shocks both of them into stillness. This time Derek has a better view to catch the blush that creeps over his face as he stammers hesitantly through a softer excuse. “I mean, I’ll hardly fit on the couch anyway and it's your office. Maybe I’ll just take the floor-“

“Are you shitting me?” Derek narrows his eyes at the clueless boy. “It’s Christmas, Stiles. You’re not sleeping on the floor.” 

Stiles’ lip twitches into a smile. 

“Yes sir,” he jokes mockingly and Derek has to turn away and clear his throat to hide how he chokes on his own spit. Stiles talks to his back with a smile in his voice, “Think I saw some candles on the desks out there, should I grab ‘em for light?” 

“Sure, yeah.” Derek nods and keeps his back turned, fussing with the blankets and pillows on the couch until he realizes Stiles is still confined in the starched crisp lines of work clothes, and while they fit him perfectly, he can’t be expected to find any sort of comfort in them when trying to sleep through the night. 

“Wait.” 

Stiles stops in the doorway. Derek pulls out a loose pair of sweats matching the ones he’s currently wearing from the bottom of the closet and tosses them lightly to a frozen Stiles, who reacts just in time to catch them. 

“You stay here and change, no point creasing those more than needed.”

They’re nice pants, is all. Thick stitched and durable, holding their shape around supple curves Derek’s studied far too long to be appropriate. He doesn’t think about them now, about how those same curves will fill sweatpants he’s worn countless times, how the ankles will ride high and Stiles' thighs might pull the crotch tight. 

Derek trips out of the office in his haste to escape the thoughts of it. The moment he’s on the other side of the door he deflates. Fuck. What the hell is he doing? 

Swearing under his breath to himself, Derek storms around as much as he can in the dark open-plan office floor to gather the few rather poignantly scented candles he can find. 

When he returns Stiles' sat curled on the couch, the red blanket wrapped loosely around his shoulders. His socks have adorable snowflakes on them, and yet, even now he wouldn’t be out of place splashed on glossy pages.

“I hope you don’t mind… “ Stiles looks unsurely at him. 

Derek has no idea what he thinks Derek would mind but he doesn’t, at all. There is literally no mind left. 

“No, yeah, you’re good,” he says just to cover all bases and hurriedly places the scavenged candles on the coffee table as his grip starts to slip. 

Stiles makes comedicilly exaggerated sound as he picks up the candles one by one to sniff. Derek can hardly tear his gaze away from studying each reaction instead of focussing on finding the matches in his desk drawer like he should, leaving his hand to uselessly fumble over the clutter blindly. Finally his fingers seize the little booklet and he settles on the couch with a healthy, conservative, workplace-appropriate space between them. 

Derek lights a match with a flick of his wrist and takes the candles as they’re offered, pine, vanilla, and--

“Not that one,” Derek scrunches his nose at the sight of the rose scented candle, “smells like my grandmother.” 

Stiles snorts and Derek’s so off guard by it the flame burns the tips of his fingers before he can shake it out. The discarded candle is set aside while the other two glow cheerfully, producing a surprising amount of soft warm light that wraps around the curves of Stiles' dimpled face. 

“Not quite a roaring fire,” Derek comments to break himself out of his trance.

Stiles' mouth quirks into a lopsided boyish grin that matches the twinkle in his eye. “Closer to birthday candles, really.” 

Now it’s Derek’s turn to snort. “Little off there unless we’re counting decades.” 

Stiles looks at him, perfect petal soft lips wide with shock as he asks, “It’s your birthday?” 

Derek stills. Shite. He hadn’t mentioned it all day while people had been rushing around getting things done for their holidays, not a word slipped out of him when they’d laughed about the suckers who received joint gifts, but now he’s just told Stiles. The Intern. Stiles the intern. Fucking shit. 

“I would have gotten you something if I’d known,” Stiles continues, worrying his lip while his brow creases. 

Derek runs a hand through his hair with nervous fingers. “That’s alright. Just a few trips round the sun, really.” 

A hand on his knee startles him. He looks up and sees Stiles' gentle face much closer than Derek remembers him being, the feet between them now inches. 

“Wanna give you something anyway.” 

Derek’s got just enough time to enjoy the sparkle in Stiles' eye before they slip closed and they’re kissing, oh fuck, they’re kissing and Stiles' lips are the greatest things Derek’s ever felt against his own. The kiss is as sweet as the boy it’s from. Derek sighs into it, completely enraptured by the gentle press of warmth that leads him into bliss. They part slowly, Stiles' rosy cheeks no doubt matching Derek’s own as they suck in air that had seemed unimportant seconds ago. 

Derek’s hand has cradled Stiles' jaw, fingertips brushing soft curls and overtly aware of the racing heartbeat under his touch. Stiles' bottom lip is left with a tempting shine and Derek’s focus struggles to choose between it and the glory of learning each speck of colour in Stiles' eyes. There’s a caution in them growing by the second and Derek’s grip automatically tightens to keep Stiles from pulling away. He nearly gets lost in the rush of Stiles' breath, wanting desperately to capture it, but first he needs to smooth away the crease between the boy's brow. 

“Wonderful, it was wonderful,” Derek reassures and watches his thumb stroke along Stiles' jawline. He wants to trace the same path with his tongue. He meets Stiles' eyes in a showcase of willpower. “Only fair I give you something in return. For Christmas.” 

He leans in just as slow as he can manage, his hold loosening until it’d be easy to break if Stiles made even the slightest effort to pull away. He doesn’t. Instead their lips meet again, this time melding into something vigorous that shoots sparks of heat into Derek’s belly at the promise it shows. 

They pull apart just long enough for Derek to suck in air and Stiles to pant, “Happy Hanuka,” before they fall back into each other. 

Derek’s hands smooth over the soft jersey of the borrowed sweats, pulled just as tight as he’d known they would be on Stiles' ass. The boy is quick to eagerly take the incentive and move into Derek’s lap, still licking into his mouth as their bodies press together in a solid line of heat. Too much heat. Derek’s starting to sweat under his layers as the wiggling boy rolling his body against his gains momentum and rocks their crotches together in a rhythm that has them both moaning. 

Derek shoves his hands under Stiles' knit and it’s not long before it’s tossed carelessly into a corner. Derek’s hands trace the thighs wrapped around him next, a desperation to feel their supple softness without barrier giving him the strength to take control with a push. 

Stiles lands on his back with legs parted around Derek, highlighting the obscene outline of his cock straining. Derek can’t resist cupping the length, pressing into it’s solidness and holding it flat against Stiles' tummy. The boy whimpers, the wonderful expanse of his bare chest flush with excitement. 

“You’re so worked up,” Derek keeps steady pressure along Stiles' cock as he strokes him through the cotton layer and nearly faints at the sight of a dark wet patch growing with every upstroke. He looks at Stiles' face in awe. “You getting wet for me?” 

“Just for you,” Stiles whines as his hips try to hump into Derek’s palm. 

Derek moves his hands to hold Stiles' hips in place with a small tsk at the impatient whine he receives. 

“Only good boys get presents.” 

Stiles' face flames with the reprimand, but his hips jerk into stillness under Derek’s touch. Gently Derek curls his fingers under the elastic band and tugs them low. He swallows his tongue at the sight of Stiles' delicate trail of fine hair leading to his uncovered cock. 

“Naughty,” he chides, unable to manage a single other word at the realisation that Stiles' been freeballing it in his borrowed sweats. 

“Wanna be good,” Stiles says and he licks his bottom lip and bites it like he knows just how coy he needs to be to rile Derek up further. 

The growing pressure in Derek’s own pants nearing painful is enough to concede that Stiles does, infact, know exactly what he’s doing. Derek doesn’t tell him, instead ignoring his own cock to focus on where Stiles is leaking all over himself. 

“I dunno. Such a messy boy,” he places his flat palm over Stiles' dick again, the same as he had before the pants had come off. 

Stiles immediately tenses with the effort to stay still, straining and starting to break into a sweat. Good boy. Derek rewards him with a frim stroke and trails back to rub the pad of his thumb where he knows Stiles' most sensitive on the underside of his cockhead. 

Stiles gasps at the direct pressure, breaking out into a sob as Derek keeps his thumb there, swirling small circles in the slick of his precome. Every muscle in Stiles' body tenses beneath him and Derek enjoys the powerful rush of seeing the boy work to control himself, mere seconds passing before Stiles’ chest is heaving with the effort.

“I can- I can be your good boy,” Stiles sobs and the desperate edge of it makes Derek finally relent. 

He gives Stiles a full solid stroke from base to tip and swoops down to capture Stiles' lips, leaning over him to extend the kiss and let Stiles come down from the direct stimulation with gentle tugs. 

“You are, baby. Such a good boy for me,” he soothes. 

Derek’s hips rock up into Stiles' arse, the tease of his clothed dick pressing right where he knows it’ll slide so perfectly too much of a tease to handle for long. The moment Stiles' trembling calms enough to deem steady, Derek is pulling away to tear off his clothes. He returns to lean over Stiles between his parted legs, one hand holding himself up while the other assists his dick in slotting right into the crease of Stiles' cheeks. 

Kisses are barely manageable now, closer to open mouthed panting in each other's space as Derek fumbles the lube he had stashed far, far under the couch cushions. He slicks up and gets just enough of it into Stiles in a mess of quick fingers. 

“Who’s messy now?” Stiles cheeks when Derek squirts out too much lube and everything quickly becomes a wet glide. 

Derek huffs a laugh with him but still gives a small tap to Stiles' ass for the attitude. 

The laughter disappears into groans at the pressure of Derek’s dick breaching Stiles' tight hole. Fuck, has it been that long? Must be, because Derek can’t hold back the surge of pleasure that rocks him to his core and leaves him pounding into Stiles relentlessly, driven completely by the sight of Stiles' tossed back head and parted lips and long, long line of his neck. Derek gives into his earlier desire and bites the line of his boy's jaw, sucking cruelly at the taught skin of Stiles’ arched neck until it’ll bruise. 

Through the haze of his own pleasure Derek gets a hand between them and wraps it tight around Stiles' cock, avidly watching Stiles writhe at the dual stimulation. Derek nearly misses the split second it takes Stiles' face to morph into an obscene showcase of ecstasy as a shocked cry and locked muscles accompany the heavy pulse of his cock spilling across both of them. 

The sight of him, the vice like feel of Stiles around him, it’s enough to push Derek close and he chases the edge with vigorous pumps of his hips. 

“Come on Der,” Stiles' hands trace over his skin in scorching trails as he pants, “wanna feel you come inside me, wanna taste it.” 

“Fuck.” 

That does it. 

Derek gasps as his belly clenches and his balls tighten, hips slowing to a pulse as he empties himself into Stiles for every bit he’s worth. Stiles' body clenches rhythmically, milking him until Derek’s too sensitive to stand it. 

Now he’s the one trembling as he eases out and pulls back, kneeling between Stiles' sprawled legs. Derek grabs a piece of their discarded clothes and quickly wipes himself for the worst of it before crouching down and guiding Stiles' knees over his shoulders. 

Stiles makes a small sound as Derek’s tongue meets the swollen rim, the cheeks either side of him red from the way Derek’s hips had slammed against them. The first taste of himself makes Derek want to pull away, but the soft sounds of Stiles’ cursing and the shaking of his thighs keeps Derek pressing closer, his tongue licking deeper into him to get as much of it as possible from the oversensitive hole. It’s a revelation every time they’ve done this, to be in the most sensitive part of Stiles, right where he’s just been, and savour the evidence of his mark on the boy while Stiles gasps and moans his name. The raw nerves leave Stiles flinching away while the pleasure keeps him rocking down for more, a chaotic motion Derek stills with a solid grip wrapped around Stiles' creamy thighs and a hand flat on his shuddering stomach. 

Once Derek has all he can hold, he moves up, crawling over Stiles' prone form and gently cupping the side of his throat directly over the place his teeth left marks. He leans in for a kiss. The moment Derek’s lips part his come spills onto Stiles’ tongue. Stiles is greedy for it, eagerly licking into Derek’s mouth and surging up with renewed energy to chase after the taste. It shocks Derek still to witness just how fervent Stiles gets like this, the way he wants Derek everywhere. Under hiDerek’s hand Stiles' throat works with every swallow. 

They come down like that, softly melting into gentle kisses as tiredness drags them into a puddle amongst the blankets thrown half haphazardly over their cooling skin. Stiles eventually rolls to press his back into Derek’s chest, a little spoon tucked between the couch and Derek’s protective embrace. 

Derek runs fingers through Stiles' sweat damp hairline. 

“Why didn’t you go home?” He murmurs against Stiles’ shoulder.

Stiles tugs Derek’s hand from its place on his waist and gives it a small kiss, a tender way to buy time that Derek patiently endures. He settles in as Stiles holds both of their hands against his chest. 

“Didn’t want you to be alone,” Stiles admits in a quiet hum. 

Derek’s heart swells. 

This thing between them is still relatively new, a budding romance they’ve dipped their toes into slowly and responsibly given the positions they’re in. They’ve been as patient as can be given the intoxicating rush they feel in each other's presence, only held back by Derek’s moral war over propriety in the workplace and Stiles’ understanding of how the situation could be perceived from the outside. Now, with Stiles' full time placement waiting for him in the New Year, the past few weeks had seen an abrupt uptake in their pace. 

They hadn’t planned on seeing each other until tomorrow evening for a romantic night of adult celebration that Derek had hoped would lead to something like this. He’s speechless knowing Stiles would voluntarily spend his night, literally the night before Christmas, stuck in the office just to make sure Derek wouldn’t be alone. 

It’s been a long time since Derek’s had a home to return to. Snuggled next to a beautiful boy with a heart of solid gold, he thinks maybe next year he will. Derek shifts to feel the tame comforting friction of their bodies pressed together as close as physically possible and gives Stiles a gentle squeeze in an attempt to say everything he’s thinking. He leaves a lingering kiss on the back of Stiles’ neck, because he can. 

Next year is only two weeks away.

**Author's Note:**

> ❅ Happy Holidays ❅ Find me and likeable/shareable posts for my fics on tumblr @zanniscaramouche
> 
> ♡ I would love to know what you thought of it xx ♡


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